


Butterfly Wings

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, M/M, sex issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Castiel misses about his short-lived humanity. Peanut butter is the least of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly Wings

The first trail of fingertips: friction, heat transfer, the tiniest hint of gravitational pull.

_What are you thinking of? Dean asks._

Nothing.  Everything.

_You thinking about how good this is going to feel? A lecherous grin that falters, a flash of uncertainty behind the eyes._

_No, he says, and regrets the way Dean flinches at the word but doesn’t call it back, doesn’t apologize. Honesty. They’re working at it._

He’s feeling, or trying to. The last thing he wants to do right now is think.

_Just… give me a moment._

A deep breath.  The diaphragm contracts, lungs expand, chest rises slightly against the sheets. They’re colder than the ambient temperature of the room by five degrees, but slowly warming with the warmth from his exposed back.

Dean’s fidgeting beside him and he curls a hand through his hair, strokes the back of his neck with a thumb to soothe him, to let him know he’s done no wrong. Dean relaxes. Castiel doesn’t.

This isn’t right. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to feel.

Dean kisses him slowly, and he drops his hand to the small of his back, touches the dimples there, traces their incline till Dean hums against his mouth. He keeps his eyes closed shut. He wills his mind to quiet.

They make love, Dean murmuring things like  _lower_ and  _so long, you don’t even-_ and _harder, come on_ and  _oh_. Cas follows directions, he uses his own knowledge of anatomy, he does the job well.

_You okay?_

The antique clock in the corner of Dean’s bedroom is ticking five milliseconds too slowly. It needs to be wound. He cringes.

_Talk to me_.

Dean’s hand is on his chest. He knows exactly how much force it would take for the nails to puncture the skin, to rip down through sinew till it could grasp his heart (132 beats per minute and slowing, a biological response, involuntary).

_I’m fine, he says again, and smiles softly._

_Honesty. They’re working at it._


End file.
